


Par For The Course

by Topicabo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10034858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topicabo/pseuds/Topicabo
Summary: Anxiety is nothing new to Mycroft. It's normal to muddle through it on his own. Why expect that to change?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Error Party is plodding along, but this leapt into my brain and only took two days to write, so I decided to take a break and let this one come out.

It starts with the constriction, like a slow increase of ambient pressure around his heart. He’s still breathing, breathing perfectly fine, but his lungs ache like his intakes of air are only half as effective as they should be. As he struggles into consciousness, his mind is bogged under a fog of distressed confusion. A creeping, paralyzing sense of apprehension that something is wrong, something he should know, something that must be his fault, what is it, did I forget, should I have done something I don’t like this it hurts…

 

Mycroft blinks awake, eyes open but unfocused. His breaths are faint gasps in response to the tightness centered in his chest. He shivers; even tucked cozily under his comforter, chills prickle under the skin of his arms and legs. It takes what seems like a disconcerting amount of time for his brain to fully come online, though in reality it’s only a few seconds. Then he sighs, head flopping to one side as he rolls his eyes.

 

Anxiety attack. Of course. This isn’t the first time it’s happened while waking up. But it has been some time since he’s been so disoriented during the process. A glance at the alarm clock tells him it’s two hours before he’s supposed to be up. Mycroft grimaces at the fist of tension in his chest, annoyed at how unsatisfying breathing feels because of it.

 

Nothing for it, really. There never is. The best he can do is lie quietly for a few minutes and wait for the worst of it to pass. Then at least he’ll be functional enough to start preparing for the day. He has too much mental fortitude and dogged stubbornness for these attacks to ever be a true handicap. But he knows that it’ll linger for the rest of the day, like pervasive static in the background of an old audio recording. It may drag on into tomorrow as well now that it has dug its claws in.

 

And that’s just fine. He’s had plenty of years experiencing and ultimately coping with this particular foible of his. He’s used to it, honestly. It actually comes as a surprise to him to go an extended length of time without that familiar clench inside his ribcage. He hasn’t the time to bemoan the issue, and he certainly didn’t earn his chosen career by expecting the world to coddle him over it. So he does what he always has; he lives with it.

 

Carefully, he rolls onto his side, tucking his knees up. His brow furrows as he focuses on slowing down his inhales and exhales. He wants to breathe fast and shallow, but he knows that’s merely his body’s response to the stress. A warm shower before getting dressed might be a good idea; it would at least give some temporary relief-

 

“Myc?”

 

Mycroft freezes, his breathing going silent as his heart metaphorically jumps towards his ears. He carefully swallows. “Yes?”

 

There’s movement next to him that causes the mattress to dip and the comforter to shift. A hand touches his arm. “You okay?”

 

Mycroft’s lips compress together. “Yes, of course.” He curses at how out of breathe he obviously sounds, but keeps his tone nonchalant. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, sitting up and swinging his feet to the floor away from his bedmate. “I was about to get up anyway. There’s still time for you to sleep, so please don’t trouble yourself-“

 

“Whoa, whoa. Myc, stop.”

 

He stiffens as an arm wraps around him, fingers splaying across his chest. There’s no way to hide the tempo of his breaths now, nor the darting of his pulse under his skin.

 

“Yeah, you’re shaking. C’mon, lie back down.”

 

Oh. He is shivering, isn’t he? Mycroft honestly didn’t realize; he recalls that trembling sometimes accompanies his bouts. He’s still somewhat reluctant as he’s guided back down onto the bed.

 

“There’s no need to worry. This happens all the time.“

 

“Shhh. Relax, okay? It’s alright.”

 

Mycroft wants to scoff, maintain that this is silly and unnecessary. This is fine, this is normal, he’ll deal with it, he always has. Then a warm body slots itself against his side, and Greg Lestrade leans over him, features slightly muted in the dimness.

 

“You don’t gotta hide from me,” he says, his voice grittier than his regular scratchiness after just waking up. “You know that, right?”

 

He does. Logically, and even emotionally he knows that. In the four short months they’ve been together, he’s never found it so easy to drop pretenses, to just _be_. And yet, Mycroft feels the irrational stab of unease, of needless panic. That maybe Greg will see him as foolish, weak. Judge him. But as he stares up into those boundless dark eyes scanning his face, he sees no sign of derision; just genuine concern.

 

And then he does feel foolish. For daring to have doubt in a man as good and decent as Greg.

 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft whispers.

 

“No sorry, love. Not for this.” Greg cups his palm around the side of Mycroft’s throat, stroking his thumb against the edge of the jawline. “Talk to me?”

 

Mycroft lets his eyes drift shut. “My anxiety,” he says. His voice quavers slightly as its jostled by his breathlessness. “It’s not generally as severe as this.”

 

“Is this a panic attack?”

 

Mycroft’s eyes flick open again. “I am not panicking, Gregory.” He watches Greg’s brow line slant in a sort of off-balance, skeptical look. With a grumbly huff, he adds, “There is a difference between a panic attack and an anxiety attack.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Greg says, his laugh gentle. The sound is agreeable to Mycroft’s ears, and he decides he can overlook the erroneous assumption. Greg’s expression turns serious again as he studies Mycroft. “How can I help?”

 

Mycroft sighs. “I’m not sure. I don’t even know what to ask you to do.” He’s not pleased at being the cause of the troubled look that’s settled on Greg’s face.

 

Greg suddenly sits up. He leans off the side of the mattress, grabbing for the decorative bed cushions that they put on the floor during the night. Mycroft watches in mild puzzlement while Greg arranges them into a mound against the headboard, adding their sleeping pillows as the last detail to his impromptu project. He reclines his upper body against the comfy mass and motions to Mycroft.

 

“Come on.”

 

Mycroft hangs back, and Greg makes another little beckoning gesture. After a moment of wavering, Mycroft tentatively curls up next to Greg. Turning his head, he rests his cheek atop Greg’s chest with a soft hmph.

 

Greg reaches for the comforter and tucks it over them. His arms enfold around Mycroft, pulling him in. “Comfortable?”

 

“Yes.” Any close proximity to Greg is always pleasant. His scent, his heartbeat, his enviably steady breathing. Mycroft takes to cataloguing all those points of data as they seep into his senses. Then, Greg’s fingers comb through his hair, dragging lightly against the scalp. Mycroft’s lips part, a pleased moan purring in his throat. “Oh, that’s lovely.” He never allows anyone but Greg to do this. It’s such an intimate, vulnerable act to indulge in, and nothing reduces him to boneless bliss faster.

 

Mycroft steadily becomes aware of something else. Miraculously, he feels an unfurling of the tension around his heart. He instinctively rakes in a deep draught of air, the sound of it very much like a quiet sob. The sheer relief of a proper lungful of oxygen nearly makes him lightheaded.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Mmm…” Mycroft’s halfway gone at this point, lost in the simple pleasure of breathing in and out without any hindrance.

 

Greg just chuckles, pressing a kiss to Mycroft’s hairline. “Try to sleep a bit more, then. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Mycroft barely needs any prompting. He makes one last indiscernible noise of agreement, his surroundings melting away into a haze of warmth and gratitude. The anxiety’s not gone; it won’t be banished so easily. But this is a definite improvement.

 

And he can live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking this story might be too similar to others I've written, but it wanted to be written regardless. I do like it a lot, but I'll do my best to vary things up more.


End file.
